


come on, come on, the camera’s on

by monsterq



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Steve/Tony, Captivity, Gen, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Rescue, Sexual Assault, Torture, Written post-Avengers and pre–everything else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 14:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14750529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterq/pseuds/monsterq
Summary: There’s another ragged scream, this one sounding like it was dragged out of Tony’s throat like sandpaper, and Steve, his heart thumping loudly in his ears, forces his eyes back to the image.(I wrote this story in July 2012, shortly after Avengers came out. I never posted it and forgot it existed. Recently, I was going through my blog and found a mention of it from that date, so I went into my writing folder and found the fic. I eventually decided to give it a light edit and post it, so here it is!)





	come on, come on, the camera’s on

The phone buzzes in Steve’s pocket, and he jumps. He always does, and it always makes Clint laugh at him. But Clint’s not laughing now.

Digging it out, he notices that the others are responding to their phones too.

“Avengers assemble immediately at SHIELD HQ,” it reads. “Urgent. –Fury.”

Steve fumbles a little as he flips the phone closed, and that’s not like him. He’s got to keep it together. He’s got to be okay.

Natasha’s face sets hard as she slips the phone back into her pocket. Thor is looking at Clint’s screen over his shoulder, a crease between his brows, jaws clenched like he doesn’t want this to be what he knows it is.

It’s Bruce who says it. “D’you think this is…you know…”

“Yeah,” says Steve heavily. “We’d better go.”

 

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands as they stride in a pack down the hallway to Fury’s office. They haven’t talked about it, but he supposes that they all assume the same thing.

Or maybe they’re just following his lead.

That scares him. He sucks in a deep breath to steady himself and suddenly feels twelve again, the smallest kid in class, trying to shoulder his way through the rush of humans in the corridor, unnoticed and holding himself like he’s bigger than he is.

Natasha says his name, and Steve realizes he’s passed the door. He stops and turns around quickly, flushing, but no one’s looking at him. Thor gives the door two firm thumps with his fist and then stands back.

There’s a susurrus of muted voices inside and the thump of booted feet; Fury opens up, his face expressionless, eye flicking from one of their faces to the next. “Sir,” says Steve immediately, because he can’t help himself, “did you find—”

“Come in,” says Fury, and he turns his back on them to go back to his chair. They file in, one by one, awkwardly, crowding into the little room.

There’s a long silence once the door is shut behind them.

“Right,” says Coulson finally, and this time it’s Bruce who jumps; they didn’t see him where he was standing, arms crossed and stone faced in the back of the room (except, most likely, Natasha, who sees everything). “We haven’t found Stark.”

The words slip between Steve’s ribs like a knife, even though he should have known that, really. If they had, this would be a different kind of meeting.

“We do, however,” says Fury loudly, over Clint’s muttered curse and Thor cracking his knuckles loudly (Natasha hasn’t moved, and Bruce is closing his eyes and doing some kind of breathing routine), “have a lead. We’ve got information and a plan.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Clint raises a brow. “Which is…”

Fury and Coulson share a look, and just as Steve gets the sinking feeling that there’s something they’re not planning to tell him, Natasha says, “Oh fuck this.”

They all look over at her. “I’ve seen that look,” she says, pushing her way to the front, and then her hands are locked together behind her back in that way she has when she doesn’t want people to see the way her fingers are twitching, desperate for a weapon, for a fight. “It’s this again, and let me tell you, fuck no. You’re not going to keep this from us.”

“Agent Romanoff,” says Fury, and his voice is solid in the way that means he’s going to have the final word, but Natasha cuts down his voice with a midair swipe of her hand. “It’s pictures, isn’t it?” she says flatly. “Those sons of bitches sent us pictures.”

Fury swipes a hand tiredly across his face. “Video,” he tells her.

“We have a right to see,” she says, and her voice brooks no room for argument.

Steve has the feeling that if it were any other one of them, anyone but Natasha, they wouldn’t have gotten even that far before Fury shut them down. But even as he’s saying, “Agent, if you try to order me around one more time—” Steve knows she’s won.

What she’s won, he’s not sure. But the stone in his belly is telling him he’s going to know, like it or not.

(He thinks, for the record, that it’s probably not.)

 

“They sent it to Stark Industries,” says Fury. “Wanted money.”

Of course. It’s ridiculous, but somehow Steve is annoyed that Tony’s captors are displaying, of all things, such a dreadful lack of creativity. He almost feels that Tony has the right to be kidnapped by a higher class of criminal than this.

Fury’s got some kind of projector aimed at the blank white wall, and Steve knows if Tony were here he’d be scoffing at the primitive technology of it all, going on and on about how he could build something better than that in five minutes, he will, hold on a second, this is ridiculous—

But he’s not here, and that’s the point of this, isn’t it?

“What did they say?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Fury tells him. “But they have a policy that they do not pay ransoms. One that Stark wrote himself, I might add.”

“So…what are they going to do?”

“ _They_ are not going to do anything. _We_ are tracing where they are keeping him, and _we_ are going to get him out.” He pauses for a moment. “Or rather, you all are.”

“You’re sure it’s not a trap?” asks Steve, because he is the team leader, after all, and he’s grasping at something to anchor himself to reality.

“Of course,” Fury says, and his eye twitches like he’s barely restraining himself from rolling it. He paces to the projector and then back again. “We’re showing you this video because you should know what you’re up against. It’s nothing you can’t handle, but it’s more than…some of you might have faced before.” _Those of you who aren’t Barton and Romanoff,_ he doesn’t add. Steve hears it, though, and prickles a little bit, because hey, he was in the war. He saw things in that compound he’s never going to unsee, and with his nerves already frayed (couldn’t sleep for the life of him, remembering things that made the sheets stick to his back with sweat, giving it up for a lost cause in the middle of the night and padding downstairs in his sweatpants and using the code to Tony’s workshop that Tony gave him only a month ago with a quirk of his brows and a smirk, _you might need it_ —staring sightlessly at the clutter of wires and metal abandoned on the table when the summons came, he could see Tony with a screw between his teeth, snarking over the music out of the corner of his mouth and gesticulating wildly with the blowtorch in a manner that had made Steve fear vaguely for his life, just staring there until Jarvis said, almost gently, “Is there anything I can do for you, Captain?” and he shook his head but couldn’t make himself leave)—yeah, he doesn’t appreciate being treated like a naïve kid.

He says nothing though, because in all honesty, he knows Fury’s right.

Fury’s still talking. “…get the idea that you have some kind of right to see this thing, because let me tell you right now, you don’t. I am showing this to you out of the goodness of my heart. In the future, you’ll ask more respectfully or not at all, and you’ll accept it if the answer is no.”

“Director Fury,” says Bruce, and he stops.

“What.”

“I’m just wondering what…well, what you think the risk is that if I see this, the other guy will show up.”

“Well, how’s your self-control doing these days?”

“Is that an answer?”

“It’s not,” says Fury, and he looks away. “Look, I wouldn’t know. I think in many ways you underestimate your self-discipline, Dr. Banner. On the other hand, I gotta tell you, after I saw this I was feeling sort of big and green myself.”

Bruce says nothing, and Thor claps him on the shoulder. “I don’t know if you wish to hear my thoughts, friend, but I think it would be noble to stay and bear witness to the trials of your brother-in-arms. If you find yourself on the verge of a transformation, you can remove yourself to avoid escalation.”

Bruce looks away, not meeting any of their eyes. “Yeah, all right.”

“Chairs?” offers the director. Steve’s never seen him at such a loss before. It makes him nervous. But there’s still another part of him that thinks he’s maybe putting it on—that he’s affecting this nervousness for their sakes.

What that’s intended to accomplish, he’s not sure. But as far as Steve can tell, Fury always has a plan.

“Just play the tape,” says Natasha. “Sir.”

He does.

The image on the wall is of a conference room of sorts, or at least that’s what it looks like to Steve. One long table, wooden, maybe, and a dozen chairs. The room is dark, and he thinks at first it’s empty, but then a shadow shifts in the corner. “Get the lights.”

There’s a flick and the buzz of fluorescent lamps flickering to life. The light is white and harsh, illuminating a pale, angular man, his face covered with a mask (of course), a collection of beefy guards, also masked, and Tony.

It’s no surprise that Tony’s bound, arms cuffed tightly behind his back and ankles fixed to the chair legs. There’s a bruise purpling over his cheekbone and a smear of dried blood beneath a split lip, but he’s slouching indolently, the tilt of his head and bored slump of his eyelids suggesting he’s attending a meeting he really couldn’t care less about rather than being held hostage.

Steve doesn’t have to look around to know how tense everyone in the room is.

The man in the video is talking to the camera. Steve can’t quite concentrate on what he’s saying—he should, that’s his job, but all he can get is something about money, about _or else_. Steve’s looking at Tony slouching behind him. He’s gagged—Steve thinks of what he must have said, and he almost laughs. But he can’t, of course.

He snaps back to attention when the man in the video walks over to Tony, feet an incongruously harmless-sounding tap on the linoleum floor. One of the guards steps up by Tony’s shoulder to meet him.

The man murmurs something into the guard’s ear, and though Tony doesn’t move, Steve can see the ever-so-slight shift in the lines of his body, tense, waiting. “Have fun,” says the man. He leaves, a door out of the camera’s line of sight opening and closing with a quiet click.

The guard, closing her meaty fist around Tony’s wrists, allows herself a tiny smile. Placing her other hand for leverage on Tony’s hair, rumpled and sweaty, she heaves Tony’s arms up to the point of resistance and past. There’s a crack and a smothered scream that’s muffled through the cloth wedged between Tony’s teeth. His eyes are feral for a moment with pain, and then as the guard drops his arms like a sack of flour, Steve sees the struggle for self-control plain on his face. His chest flutters rapidly, too fast, on the edge of hyperventilation strangled through the cloth in his mouth. Steve finds himself leaning forward, thinking, _Breathe, Tony, breathe,_ as if he can force the thought through the screen to Tony on the other side. His shoulders are aching in sympathy.

Tony looks up, straight at the camera, and Steve feels the gaze like a touch on his skin. After a moment, the movement of his chest slows, more controlled.

The guard pulls out a chair and settles into it, getting comfortable behind him.  She pulls…something out of her pocket—Steve doesn’t have the angle to see what it is. But then she’s picking up one of Tony’s hands, which tries to twitch away but is held firmly, and…fuck.

“She’s pulling out his fingernails,” Clint murmurs. And she is. Tony tosses his head back with the yank, lips pulled back and teeth bared in a savage snarl around the gag, the exposed line of his throat gleaming with sweat. There’s blood now, and plenty of it, staining their hands and dripping drop by drop onto the floor. Steve swears he can hear it land.

“Sorry,” Bruce says suddenly, and he stands, his chair toppling. He’s trembling, every muscle strained, and his voice emerges in a growl that’s barely human. He all but rushes out of the room.

The guard goes for the next finger, and Tony’s hand is twitching and jumping involuntarily in her grip. Steve knows he’s imagining it when he hears the nail ripping loose from its bed. And it’s hanging by a string now—the guard gives another yank, and it’s off.

The blood is a bright, taunting red in the blocky monotony of the room, loud and raw under the unforgiving fluorescent lights.

Pain is written boldly across the dents of Tony’s forehead, and his eyelashes are spilled dark across his cheeks, just more shadows darkening the deep hollows under his eyes. The noises of agony are coming constantly now.

Steve finally gives into the impulse to look away, rationalizing it by examining the others. Fury’s expression is so blank and hard he might as well be a statue. Coulson, too, gives nothing away, but for the way he’s biting at the inside of his cheek, eyes affixed to the tape.

Thor is an open book, fists clenched and every part of his expression murderous. Clint’s staring at his hands, muttering to himself—Steve can’t catch what—and Natasha is staring ahead, arms folded tightly over her chest.

There’s another ragged scream, this one sounding like it was dragged out of Tony’s throat like sandpaper, and Steve, his heart thumping loudly in his ears, forces his eyes back to the image. It’s his fault Tony’s there at all, really. He owes him this much.

Another nail gone, and the front of Tony’s shirt is soaked with sweat. The arc reactor gleams a steady blue beneath it.

Steve’s gaze is caught by Tony’s eyes, and he can’t stop staring. They’re open now, and the expression in them is nothing recognizable as human. Sounds crawl from his mouth, jerky and inconsistent, like he’s fighting for control of his body and losing. The sweat stands out on his temples in glistening patches of skin, and with the next pull of the tools every part of him tenses, locking up in terror of itself, and then slackens in something like defeat.

“Sir,” says Natasha quietly, but then she trails off. She glances at Steve out of the corner of her eye.

“Agent Romanoff,” says Fury. When she doesn’t continue he sighs heavily. “You pushed for this, if you’ll recall.”

“I know I did.” Almost irritated. “I’m not changing my mind, it’s just…” she sneaks another look at Steve.

“I’m fine,” Steve says, and it comes out more angrily than he means it. “I mean…thanks for your concern. I’m okay.”

“I wasn’t concerned,” she says, and Clint snorts.

Thor nudges him, and Steve looks over. Very carefully, Thor reaches out and takes Steve’s hand, uncurling it before retreating. Staring down, Steve realizes that he’s clenching his fists so hard that his nails are biting into his palms, leaving bleeding crescents.

In the video, the guard has put her tool down on the table only to reach into her pocket for something else. For the first time, she looks straight at the camera. Tony’s shifting constantly now, aimlessly and involuntarily, twitching and fidgeting on the seat. Then, almost gently, holding Tony’s hand in hers like a baby bird, the guard fits whatever it is around Tony’s thumb and squeezes.

The crunch of bone is loud in the now quiet room, and everyone, even Fury, flinches. Tony spasms, lurching forward and kicking out one of his feet helplessly so that the cuff rattles against the chair. The sound he’s making is less of a scream than a howl, heavy and rough with anger that seems directed not at the guard or at his captors but at his own body.

The guard drops his hand, and it twitches and thrashes as it falls. She stands up and walks over to the camera, offering it a tiny smile. “Think about it,” she suggests, and the screen goes dark.

There’s a silence.

“Well,” says Clint, after a moment, trying casual and failing, “that’s…tough. For someone who hasn’t been trained for it.”

“Hell,” Natasha says, “that’s tough for anyone.”

Steve looks around the room and sees memories flickering under everyone’s eyes. He knows they’re in his too.

“Stark’s been tortured before,” says Fury finally. “He’ll hold up, I think. Now what we need to focus on is getting him out of there.”

Steve tries to pull himself together. There’s still a loud ringing in his ears, and he can’t stop seeing the movie flash behind his eyelids.

“Right,” he says. “Let’s call Bruce back in here and figure out what we’re going to do.”

 

Tony can’t get comfortable.

Well, that should be obvious. At this moment, “comfortable” seems like a dream he once had. The point is, there’s no position he can settle in that doesn’t exacerbate his injuries. His hands are still cuffed behind his back—he doesn’t see the need, really, since they’re completely out of commission—but his ankles are free. He settles on standing, pacing a little bit back and forth in the makeshift cell he’s locked in.

The pain isn’t as bad as it was. He passed out earlier, after they brought him back here, and he doesn’t know how long it’s been, but at least he’s no longer fading in and out of consciousness.

It’s not like he’s new to pain. But he can’t stop thinking about—things—about a cave and a box of scraps, about water filling his lungs, about Obie and a friendly smile and cold fingers. When he thinks of that, a rough-edged hate and a slippery dread coil through his mind, suffocating him in terror and making him almost wish for the hot oblivion of pain.

He paces, and something in him lurches and upsets itself, and he finds it suddenly necessary to sit down before he falls.

Leaning forward, unable to support himself with his arms.

The cell is empty, completely bare of anything he could use to get himself out of here, even if he did have use of his hands. Maybe they heard about what happened the last time he was captured. Tony almost grins to himself, imagining his enemies trading stories, the spectacle that would be an International Supervillain Conference. Though “super” is a little generous for these goons.

Anyway, it looks like he’ll just have to wait.

That’s when he hears the sound of someone fiddling with the lock.

The metallic noise sets his heart thumping, and he hates himself for it. He doesn’t need to be such a coward: it’s his own fault he’s here anyway, his own fault the mission failed. He deserves whatever’s coming to him.

That doesn’t stop him from struggling to his feet again, though—a feat more difficult than usual with no hands—to establish at least the pretense of an equal footing.

The door swings open, and a guard enters. Tony vaguely recognizes him, possibly from that time he tried to take down everyone in the building with his ankles chained together and failed.

Tony stands with a hip cocked, smiling past the hammering of his pulse. “Hey, buddy, good to see you! Did you want a drink? I’d serve you one, but I’m a little—”

The guy smiles back. “Shut up, Stark.”

“You know, it’s funny: people say that to me a lot. I can’t imagine why. Do you have any insight?”

“Listen—” He walks over. Tony briefly considers attempting a kick but discards the idea. The way he’s feeling now, he can barely stand. “I really don’t think you’re in the position to be rude right now. I think you’d be better off acting a little more respectful.”

“They always tell me that, too,” Tony says.

The man, his thin face twisting, sneers. “You think you’re so clever. So special. But you know, you’re nothing more than a spoiled, selfish child. You only do things for yourself.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Tony says mildly. God, he wants a drink.

“Didn’t I tell you? If you don’t act a little more respectful, you’re going to find yourself in for a world of pain. Get on your knees.”

Tony laughs. “Aren’t you going to buy me dinner first?”

He reaches out and hooks a hand around the back of Tony’s knee, pulling. Tony goes sprawling, and for a moment the world whites out with pain as the impact jars his dislocated shoulders. “Not so much, no. Listen, Stark, you’re going to do what I say. Do you know why?”

Tony pulls himself together. “Do tell.”

“You’re going to do what I say because if you don’t, I’m going to move on over next door to your buddy Captain America, instead.”

He stiffens. “Bullshit. You don’t have him.”

“How do you know?” The way the man’s smile widens says he knows he has him. “Haven’t you wondered why they’re taking so long to rescue you? Hasn’t it occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, they already tried?”

“You’re full of shit,” Tony says flatly. “Cap’s got you completely outclassed. Besides, it hasn’t been that long at all.”

“You think?”

“I do think.”

“Are you willing to bet your friend on it?”

Tony’s throat closes up. He stares.

“That’s what I thought.” The pleased smirk on his face makes Tony want to hit him, but he can’t. The man reaches around himself and pulls a gun from the holster beneath his shirt; Tony tenses but doesn’t move away. There’s no point.

“Open up, sweetheart,” he says, and Tony just stares at him. “I said, open your mouth. Unless you want me to go next door.”

Tony drops his eyes and lets his jaw slacken. The gun is forced in past his teeth, scraping at his tongue and the roof of his mouth. It tastes cold and sour, metallic and greasy, mixing with the blood it draws from his torn skin. He coughs and gags when it hits the back of his throat.

“Gotta do better than that, Stark,” he says. “Fuck, you have a nice mouth, anyone ever tell you that before?”

They have, actually, and it’s not something he wants to think about right now. The gun twists, slides in farther, and he chokes, forces down his gag reflex and relaxes his throat as best he can.

“That’s more like it.” His free hand is flicking open his belt buckle with a casual motion, and Tony closes his eyes.

“Look at me.” The gun withdraws, finally, wet with the spit and blood still clinging to it, and Tony sucks in a deep breath. A slap cracks and burns on the side of his face. “Look at me. What’re you thinking about, hm?” He unzips. “Your friends? Better worry about yourself, baby. Then again, you’ve never had any trouble with that, have you? _Did I say you could close your mouth?_ ”

Opening his eyes again, Tony sees the hand coming in to grab at his jaw and feels the other clenching in his hair. The gun’s back in its holster, mess and all. He lets his mouth open and gives into the tug forward. Tries to let his mind go blank.

His whole body rebels, though, at the push past his lips, hot and hard and tasting of sweat. He jerks, twists, but the hand tangled in the hair at the back of his head holds him in place, pulling forward.

“If you even think about biting,” the voice above him cautions, “I’m sure you can imagine what’ll happen, smart guy like you.”

The salty taste is thick in his mouth now, and he wants—to leave, to go away, to stop thinking. He hates himself, and the blood is rushing to his cheeks in humiliation. He knows this is what his captor wants, knows that’s the point of this exercise—Tony has been called a lot of names in his lifetime, but stupid has never been one of them—but he can’t break the loop in his mind, the unending flood of shame.

“It’s a funny thing, Tony Stark,” says the man. He’s settling into a slow, lazy rolling of his hips now, his grip unyielding in Tony’s hair. “You’ve always had so much promise, so much going for you. But in the end you always ruin it. In the end, it comes to this.” He laughs, and his hips pick up speed slightly. “Wonder what your daddy would think if he could see this. Can you imagine how disappointed he’d be? He expected so much more from you.”  
_Wanna bet?_ comes the thought to Tony’s head, unbidden. He pushes it away. Don’t listen. Just white noise.

For a long time, the only sounds in the room are the man’s panting, the slick slide and slap of skin, and the painful shifting of Tony’s knees on the hard floor. Then the man starts talking again.

“Don’t look so down, sweetheart. Aren’t you having fun? There’s no need to pretend.” He reaches down and undoes Tony’s pants. Tony tries to jerk away, but “ _Stay still_ ,” the man says, his voice gone downright dangerous even as his hips pump ever faster into Tony’s mouth.

He reaches in and wraps a hand around Tony’s dick, stroking, and Tony closes his eyes, feeling sick. Against his will, his body is beginning to respond to the touch, a coiling tight heat.

Jerking him harder, until Tony almost can’t take it anymore, the man pulls out with a muffled groan and comes in thick ropy spurts across Tony’s chin, his cheeks, his closed eyes. In another few moments, Tony comes too, choking out a raw note from his throat in a tone that sounds something like despair.

The guy tucks them both back into their pants and then swipes at Tony’s cheek and offers it to him to taste. Tony twists away with a whispered “Fuck you,” hoarse. The dull flush is rising in his cheeks, bile churning in his stomach, the ever-present haze of pain and his cracked lips.

He smirks at Tony. “Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug and wipes his thumb on Tony’s shirt. Leaving the cell, he has a bounce in his step, and Tony stares at the dirty floor until he’s gone.

Then he slumps, mangled hands still shackled behind his back and come drying on his face, and tries to think of nothing at all.

 

She takes them down quickly, silently, and efficiently. Clint is behind her like a shadow, taking out the ones that remain with deadly accuracy. Thor, Hulk, and Cap are a few minutes behind them, the brute force counterpart to their ghostly attack.

Natasha’s skin is prickling. This all seems too easy. Shouldn’t there be more people here?

She mutters something to that effect into her comm, and Coulson makes a quiet noise of agreement. “We’re sending in reinforcements,” he says. “We have reason to believe that the bulk of the operation may be hiding five miles from here, planning a counterattack.”

She sighs, exasperated, as she crouches in a hallway with her back to a wall, wary. “You couldn’t have mentioned that before?”

“We didn’t know before.” His voice crackles and then comes back stronger. “ETA for the rest of their people is maybe ten minutes. Your reinforcements should come in about the same. I need you to find Stark and get him out of here and back to the helicopter as quickly as possible.”

“Got it,” says Natasha, and taking a last look around, she straightens up again. She’s got an idea of where they’ll be keeping Stark, and she’s not going to waste time.

“Basements?” asks Clint from behind her, doing that weird mind-reading thing he does sometimes, and she nods. “Let’s go. And hurry.”

They slip down the stairway, not encountering any more guards, and now Natasha’s really creeped out. The sooner they get out of here, the better.

And there’s a door, little window at eye level, still no guards anywhere in sight. Clint inches past her, peers inside. His fingers twitch on his bow. “Yup,” he says quietly.

“Alone?” she asks, just to be sure, and he nods.

It takes all of a minute to pick the lock and break the chain keeping the door closed, and then they’re inside.

Tony’s turned away from them, trying and failing to get to his feet. He’s breathing hard, and Natasha has to take a deep breath and slide on a mask of icy professionalism to keep herself under control. It’s Clint who crosses the room first, steps hesitant, saying Tony’s name in a voice that’s uncharacteristically gentle. Natasha, after fighting herself for a moment, stays by the door. She tells herself that she’s standing guard, and that anyway Clint has enough experience in these matters to handle this.

Too much experience.

“Tony,” Clint says again, softly, and Tony raises his head, turning toward him. His face is dirty and streaked with—something, Natasha doesn’t think about it, doesn’t remember. “Okay if I help clean you up a little?” Clint asks quietly, and after a moment, Tony nods. Very slowly, as if reaching out to a wild animal, Clint extends his hand to Tony’s face, other hand cradling the back of his neck, careful to avoid his shoulders, and wipes away the mess. Then he wipes his hand off on the ground. “You can clean up a little better once we’re out of here, okay? But we need to go.” Tony nods again.

That’s the moment Steve appears, striding down the hallway with his shield at the ready. “Widow, there you are. Do you—” Then he catches sight of Tony.

Tony avoids his eyes. Natasha thinks about warning Steve, somehow—but he’s not doing anything, just hanging back and looking twitchy and a little lost, like he’s not sure what to do with himself.

Clint’s attention is still entirely focused on Tony. “I’m going to help you get up now, okay? Is there anywhere you want me to avoid touching?”

Tony coughs, clears his throat. “My arms,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. “And my hands.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” says Clint. “We’ll get these cuffs off you when we’re outside, okay? We don’t have time right now.” Carefully, settling one hand on Tony’s back and the other on his hip—Tony flinches almost imperceptibly from the contact but doesn’t try to move away—he helps Tony struggle to his feet. “Cap?” says Clint, not looking anywhere but Tony. “Do you think you can carry him?”

“Sure,” says Steve awkwardly. “Of course.” He walks in, looking a little less lost with every step now that he has something to do. Tony, on the other hand, is visibly grasping for his armor, and not the metal kind either. As Steve lifts him into a fireman’s carry, Tony laughs a bit, the sound scraping at his throat, and jokes, “Hey, a free ride! Is this the treatment I get? I should get kidnapped more often!”

Steve laughs uncomfortably and, following Natasha’s lead, fast-walks out of the room and down the hallway. Even though he takes long, smooth steps, the movement puts creases of discomfort in Tony’s face.

Tony keeps up a steady stream of inane chatter as they climb the stairs, even as his voice hitches and breaks with the pain.

By the time they make it onto the ground level, reinforcements have shown up and are pointing them outside, to the helicopter that’s crouching menacingly on the concrete. Cap puts on a burst of speed, and by the time Natasha and Clint catch up, Tony’s in the helicopter being attended to by stern-faced medics with bandages, needles, and cloth.

Natasha touches the comm in her ear. “He’s in the helicopter,” she says quietly.

“Good,” says Coulson. “They can take him back to base. The rest of you will stay here and fight. They’ll be here any second.”

“Okay,” she says, and she takes another step closer to the copter, resting her hand on the frame. “You guys ready?”

Steve looks up. “What?”

“Didn’t you hear that?” She tries to be patient, but she’s itching to get ready, to send the copter on its way. It sits with her wrong, having it waiting there, so exposed. “Tony’s going back to base. We’re staying here to fight.”

“We—” Steve’s face twists. “I—Tony, is that okay with you?”

“Totally,” says Tony, smiling at him. “Go on. Go kick some ass for me.”

“Okay,” Steve says hesitantly. “See you back at base?”

“Totally,” Tony repeats.

“All right.” He climbs out of the helicopter, and after a minute and a few shouted commands, it prepares to take off.

Natasha looks up once as Clint and Steve join Thor and Hulk waiting at the entrance. She sees the smile fade from Tony’s mouth, the cocky wit slide from the set of his body. As one of the medics works to break his cuffs, she sees his mouth shape a word that’s too quiet to hear under the noise of the accelerating helicopter blades.

She looks away, breathing in to prepare for the fight.


End file.
